


Hands

by LiquidFix



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidFix/pseuds/LiquidFix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some thoughts from Watson’s point of view regarding Holmes' hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://liquidfix.livejournal.com/12288.html).

I do not possess musician’s hands. It is only one of the reasons that I have never learned to play, and also one of the reasons that I so admire my friend Sherlock Holmes for his hands, for, as lithe and skeletal as they are, they are remarkably well suited for playing the violin amongst other things. That is not to say that my own hands are clumsy by comparison. Far from it, for mine are steady and deft at carrying out the most intricate tasks. It takes a calm hand to tie a suture on a man that is bleeding to death yet somehow manages to maintain enough strength to fight with you to the absolute end. They are also surprisingly good for writing with, although my companion would beg to differ.

I am particularly proud of my hands. Most people would class other parts of their body and personality as their best asset, but without my hands I would not be who I am. My aim may not be as perfect as Holmes’, but I do not suffer with the retort of the shot when I hold my revolver aloft and even. And with Holmes being so prone to forgetting his own weapon, mine has come in use on more than one occasion. He will not admit it, for he is terribly prideful, but although my hands were not designed to play instruments with, they are as invaluable as his own and unlike his, mine are warm to the touch. On the instances which have called for me to take hold of him, I have discovered that his hands are cold and not entirely welcoming. I have watched as he shakes with a client, his hand light in theirs and weak in its grasp, as though he cannot bare to make any sort of physical contact with them lest he gives too much of himself away.

However, I will admit that in certain circumstances my grip becomes unsteady. It is a most peculiar thing, for as bullets have careered through the air around me, meddling with the sound of the man on the ground before you screaming like a horse with a broken leg, I have remained calm, enough so to give them some minimal comfort - be it via an artificial method delivered through a syringe or simply by taking their hand in my own as they finally give in. Such events do not shake my hands from their task, but there is one thing that does; one thing that is so absurdly simple that it puts all of my honour to shame.

It is a look. It appears infrequently and without warning, and in the most inappropriate circumstances. It belongs to Sherlock Holmes, and when he chooses to reveal it, exposure to it results in my hands being reduced to a useless, shivering state within a relatively short space of time. It is quite impossible to describe fully what this look consists of, for it has never twice been the same and yet it remains unmistakable.

It starts with closed eyes. Holmes’ eyes are closed often, whether from boredom, lethargy or thought, so it is somewhat difficult to determine if each and every time they are closed, they will culminate in The Look. It becomes clearer though when he opens them ever so slightly and takes a glance in my direction, whether I happen to be sitting across from or beside him. I believe he thinks the motion to go undetected, but my life’s work is the study of the man, so it is only natural that I spend vast lengths of time simply staring at him (for one reason or another), memorising every little detail about him. The mane of charcoal hair tamed into place and smoothed impeccably against his skull. The molten silver of his eyes that obscure a wealth of emotions, all fighting for supremacy but all expertly schooled into submission. His hands, cold and hidden beneath tight-fitting leather, wasted on mundane, everyday tasks.

The glance evolves into a low stare, almost lost beneath the dark lashes of his tired eyes. It fixes itself upon me, pinning me to the spot like a stave through a dead butterfly, holding it in place so it may be examined intimately. The stare can go on for an undisclosed length of time. It is accompanied by a rise in heart rate and a drop in respiration. His inhalation becomes slower and more laboured, and I feel my own diminish to match it until we are both rather light headed as a result of lack of oxygen.

His own hands remain clasped within themselves as his glance evolves fully into The Look, as though he were anchoring himself down. They are calm and motionless as mine begin to twitch nervously with anticipation and longing. I know exactly what his hands are capable of at such moments, and it is not composing delicate airs on the violin or shooting a felon in the knees.

The Look cannot be mistaken with anything else when it finally shows itself. It is not the expression Holmes wears when he is admonishing me about the dangers of a case, nor is it the same as when I have blundered and he is somewhat disappointed with me. As I have already mentioned, it is prone to appear during highly unsuitable circumstances - the back of a cab, over a meal in company - nowhere is safe from it. Thankfully, Holmes’ eccentricity around others simply masks what is actually an open invitation from him to me to look like a joke shared between friends.

My hands falter at The Look. How could they not, when they know what is expected of them? Holmes demands perfection in all situations, most of all where The Look is concerned. It is no wonder that my hands waver when they are to be used to worship him, for that is exactly what they do when he offers himself up to me.

He laughs at the effect he has on my flawless hands. When he has displayed enough of The Look and we are both suitably breathless before even touching, Holmes will jest about how weak I am. It should anger me but it does not, for Holmes can only ever tell the exact and literal truth, and it is exact and literal that The Look makes me utterly powerless and the first symptom is that my usually restrained hands clam up and cannot find peace. They fidget as though longing to find something useful to do, and usually, the first useful thing they find to do is to undress Sherlock Holmes.

They do not steady through progression. If anything, they become even more restless, longing to explore the vast swathes of his flawed skin that remain hidden beneath layers of the finest tailoring which I know in depth but never cease to yearn for and yet, thanks to The Look, my hands become clumsy and struggle to even undo a simple button or tie. This is when Holmes intervenes and takes a hold me, lifting my hands to his mouth where he beings a slow, torturous examination of each and every digit with his tongue.

When he does so, it causes my pulse to thrash around my body and collide with my heart in my chest. The Look is still there, although it withdraws as he once more closes his eyes and concentrates on the task before him, and I leave my hands in mid air where he has placed them as he picks up where I left, unfastening himself layer by layer, revealing himself slowly until he is stark and naked before me while I remain fully dressed.

My hands tremble as they wander. The back of one trails over his chin which has started to show traces of the day’s growth, and down his neck while the other hesitates, wanting to take all of him at once but settling for simply feeling the impossibly hard breastbone that holds the cage of his ribs together. Here, at least, it steadies. But I feel it burn into his skin, and I fear that if I lift my hand away there will be an ugly red welt where he should be only pure and unblemished (which is something that should be said for all of him, but sadly cannot).

Holmes, now free after undressing himself, starts on ridding me of my outfit. It is a slow process, and he carries it out with his musician’s hands. Everything is timed perfectly. The exact pressure and movement required to achieve the desired effect is used, as with the loosening of each item he explores me in turn. When my collar is removed along with my tie and thrown to the floor, and the first couple of buttons of my shirt have been unfastened, he lowers his lips to my exposed neck where he tastes me between his teeth. This causes my hands to tighten, which in turn elicits a satisfied groan from Holmes, as though he is pleased with himself for having caused my hands to alter yet again.

My waistcoat is next. It joins my tie and collar. My shirt is removed slowly, his head dipping ever lower as more and more of my flesh is given the same equal attention that he paid to my neck. Lower still he goes until he is on his knees before me and my hands lose their purchase on him. Naturally, they find their way to his head where they grip through his hair, twisting it out of place. He does not appear to mind as I alternate between stroking him delicately and taking him with such force as to drive his face against my torso. Under other circumstances I feel that he would have a great deal to say should I dare to put a hair on his head out of place, but when he bows before me in such a manner, he does not say a word.

Our control gradually begins to spiral away from us as we continue. My once-proud hands can do nothing but follow his lead as he gently tackles me to the ground. They become desperate as the last of my clothing is hastily removed and his ever-cold hands trace down my thighs, and as they become more desperate they also become clumsier and yet, our movements are perfectly orchestrated. As he hastily removes the last of my clothing, we fit each other’s bodies flawlessly. His height is appropriate to mine, being taller than myself it is impossible to ignore that he is male. As it is, his hands are larger too, and far too hard and worn, despite their delicateness, to be mistaken for belonging to the opposite sex. It does not bother me, his overbearing masculinity. It is not something he can control, and so I take him as he is.

We lie on our sides. His hands are commanding and dictate the direction we take, while mine follow his lead. I do not mind, for I follow him always. He tells me to jump and I ask how high, no matter how dreary the task he asks of me, I always do my utmost to adhere to it so when he lowers his hands, trailing over my stomach and thighs with his fingertips, I do the same for him. My lips find his and one of his hands closes over me. I know the touch is inevitable, but it always shocks me when it comes and my mind becomes blurred at the gentle, restrained contact.

I cease to exist during these times. All there is in my world is Holmes and his damned, unshakably perfect hands that I love and hate with equal measure. How can he use them to touch me so, to bring me to the edge of my being and cause me to forget myself, and yet with the very same hands, he sends himself into a stupor for days on end and abuses his magnificent body?

As his movements increase, I cannot help but picture him in rolled up sleeves, searching for a vein on his sparse arm and I am thankful that I do not have full control over myself or I fear I would push him away. It breaks me to watch him destroy himself so, to chip away at the wall of his resolve. I would rather turn my back than see him do it, and though he has never openly attacked himself before me, I know he does it. I do not need to see my heart and lungs to know that they are there. How else would I be able to love and breathe in the man? And although I only ever see his hands searching over himself, desperate for an hollow release, I know it is him. Just as I know without looking at him as he traps me in the confines of his limbs that it is his hands that roam over me in pursuit of my own relief.

He draws it from me slowly, smothering my unspoken declarations of love with his mouth and moments later, I return the gesture. I am always first to be tipped off the scales, and as I am my whole body is racked with a shuddering jolt. For that shadow of a second I think I understand why he does it, because there is no me and there is no Holmes. In our place there is nothing, and I find myself clawing to hold onto it. I don’t want The Look, and I don’t want to feel his hands upon me. Neither do I want to be without them, because all in that moment I want nothing other than to feel just that - nothing.

When I gradually fall back to reality, I find that it is usually my hands that I become aware of first, along with his lips still pressed against mine. Upon opening my eyes I see that The Look has totally dissolved, lost in the fray of his muddled emotions and my hands, which take him gingerly by the jaw are composed and strong as I persuade him to lean back so that I can take a full look at him; his skin coated in sweat and his hair tumbled over his head as though he has just gone ten rounds.

A slight smile will sometimes ghost across his lips before it too disappears to join The Look. And then I realise that it has all been an illusion; a shadow cast against the wall, warped and unnatural, for his hands become like mine when he casts his eyes and desires upon me, and I see him itch beneath his skin when he leaves my side.

I stand too, and my hands are sound as I make myself as presentable as possible. I watch his hands as he palms his hair back into place – the first thing to be attended to – and see that they are wracked with shakes and shivers. It is something I have seen before, as I catch him adjusting his cuffs or slamming a drawer shut as I approach him, but only then, and I am no longer proud of my hands when they reduce him to the same state that the damned drug does. I can identify why he takes pleasure in experiencing nothingness, and the ache caused by being forced by reality to feel again, so I leave him, as the more I bathe in his presence the more I want him, and to want anything at all it to taint the emptiness that we have shared. He understands, I think, as he never tries to stop me.

It is a different look he gives me when we part, one which I cannot describe at all, and even if I could, I do not wish to share it even with the pen and paper. It is accompanied by a gentle kiss on my forehead and a silent promise that we will numb each other again in the not too distant future.


End file.
